Not Worth His Time
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Proof-read. A new case brings back long-forgotten haunts. After all, there is a story behind how Sherlock became Sherlock. Anyway, I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters in this story. They're all Doyle's and the BBC's. Warning: will turn gruesome! M for hardcore and violence.
1. Not Worth His Time

It was a dull and grey October morning when DCI Lestrade called John and Sherlock to a particularly gruesome crime scene in Islington. "Not worth my time," Sherlock had declared, but John had insisted they go or he would either stab the detective with his own pen knife or shoot him. He would _**not**_, and he was very clear on that, tolerate Sherlock's mood swings and tantrums any longer. For a fortnight, the younger man had been without a case, and he had coped well at first, busying himself with all sorts of experiments, then busying John with all sorts of errand jobs, before he had taken to more (self-)destructive pastimes. John was literally tired of those. Four 'danger nights' in a row, keeping both a watchful eye on any substance Sherlock brought into the house and a patient suicide watch on the changeable character of his flat share. He knew that Sherlock would not just go and top himself. But he'd go on cutting until he fainted. He'd done it before. And eventually he would bleed himself to death. But after a deprivation of four nights' sleep, John was tired. TIRED! So any case was welcome.

Sherlock sneered and rolled his eyes all the way to Islington, but John found he preferred the arrogance of the consulting detective to the sulking detective of the past weeks. Silently smiling to himself, the doctor watched the city pass by his window and ignored the biting comments.

They got off the cab and shivered at the frosty air. John rubbed his hands and looked the street up and down. Sherlock was already eying the house. To an observer unfamiliar with the tall man his face might have seemed concentrated, distant, and devoid of emotion, but John frowned at the pale face of his friend. It seemed that Sherlock's alabaster skin had turned a shade whiter still, and his eyes were definitely not as distant as they usually were. For a second, John thought he had seen confusion in them, and fear_. Moriarty? But he was dead, wasn't he? Yes_, John mused, _something was off_. Sherlock was lost in thought, but he wasn't concentrating _**at all**_. John made a mental note to inquire, when Sergeant Donovan appeared in the entrance, cocking her head at the two men.

"Freak," she nodded at Sherlock, "Doctor Watson. Hope you didn't stop for breakfast."

"Neither have _you_, Sally," Sherlock flashed a false smile at the policewoman, "though _you_ expected somebody to cook you some, if I'm not mistaken." The woman's face fell and she looked daggers at Sherlock who was quickly pushed into the house by John.

"Does _he_ cook you breakfast then?" Sally spat, at which Sherlock turned on his heels, crashing into John who was still holding his left elbow. "Sherlock," John warned in a low voice, but Sherlock had shaken his friend off already and pulled himself into a very erect pose, "He does." _God, no_, John thought, _he'd never hear the end of __**that**_. Shaking his head in exasperation he almost missed Sherlock adding, "And I take him out for dinner in return. Unlike your _arrangement_,_ I_ actually _pay_." _Oh, God_.

"In case you hadn't noticed – _**He**_'s actually _here_," John cut in, "and he doesn't pay me for … _**that**_. We're not _together_, though that must have sounded-"

"_**Come on**__, John_! I haven't got all day!" Sherlock barked and headed for the stairs, his coat flowing around his thin form. Half-way up, he realized that he still did not know what they were dealing with. _Murder, yes, but that was rather vague, wasn't it?_ The detective put a gloved hand on the rail and frowned. Something was not right. He cast a suspicious glance around, taking in the wallpaper, the polished wood, the framed hunting scenes, and the lustres. He barely noticed he was holding his breath, but he was aware of a sharp pain in his bottom lip where he had bitten himself.

"**Sherlock**?" If the tone of John's voice was anything to go by, he had been trying to pull him from his reverie. Only now the sturdier man pushed him against the wall and stared at him.

"What's _wrong_?" Sherlock gulped and licked at his lip, growling, "As my doctor you should stop me from _hurting myself_. Not _have me_ up against walls." The absurdity of the words was meant to sound light, but John would have none of that and shoving a handkerchief into Sherlock's hand, he shook his head, "You'll _explain_. At _home_," at which Sherlock, uncharacteristically, nodded.

The crime scene was indeed gruesome, and John heaved an angry sigh while Sherlock merely frowned. DCI Lestrade who was standing over the victim nodded gravely at the two men. The room they found themselves in was a child's bedroom. _A boy's judging by the adventure books and model kits_. _And the lack of dolls, toys, and make-up_, John added in his thoughts. The sparse room was antiquely furnished - a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair. It was the drawings, collections, and great number of books that added life to the place. There were butterflies, leaves in various stages of decomposition, stuffed animals, sea-shells, and stones. _A bit unusual_, John thought and found the room reminded him of _Harry Potter_. They were 2012 after all. _This looked more_, John thought hard, _Victorian. Conservative, traditionalist. Posh, too. Definitely posh._ He cocked his head at the books. Some had not been written until the 1970s. _That figured_, the doctor decided, recognizing one chemistry set from his own school days. In fact, this was more a room that _he_ could have grown up in. Well, _not he really, but Sherlock._

The detective had not even looked at the room, John realized. He had been staring at the bed and at the dead little boy who was tied to its headboard. John felt sick at the scene. The child could not be much older than eight. He was small, pale, and undernourished. John could make out sharp hipbones and some protruding ribs. His face was undefined and innocent, framed by dark curls. There was a lot of blood on the sheets, and it was obvious that they were dealing with sexual abuse as much as homicide. John noticed some bloodied objects on the floor. _Tools_. The child had been tortured. _This was sick_. He turned to Sherlock who was standing motionless, the blood on his lip caking. _A quivering lip_, John noted. Sherlock was deeply moved, he realized. His eyes were narrowed and his features controlled, the very image of a cold-hearted bastard. John saw beyond the cold mask and shuddered inside.

"Let's go," Sherlock croaked and turned.

"_Oy_," Lestrade called, "_Just a minute_! Any ideas?" He stared at Sherlock who stared back and shook his head, "It's obvious. And not worth my time."

John cast the chief inspector an apologetic look and shrugged before he followed his friend outside.


	2. What's Wrong?

John found Sherlock in the alley behind the house. The young man was steadying himself with one hand while he was bent over the dustbins, retching helplessly. The smell of the place told John that he had already thrown up considerably.

"You're alright?" the doctor asked and received a dirty look for an answer.

"You haven't had breakfast," John stated, "So this is last night's."

"Are you analysing the contents of my stomach?" Sherlock glared when, wiping his mouth, he split his lip again. John watched him curiously and pouted, "Yes, Sherlock, because this is serious. You've never had a reaction like this to a crime scene," he hesitated, "have you?"

Sherlock shook his head and sighed 'no' before he staggered back to the main street.

"What's _wrong_ then?"

Sherlock turned and stared at John. Then he chose not to answer and faced away, ignoring the lingering question.


	3. The Headless Horse - Part I

Only three days after Sherlock had turned down the case of the little boy, the friends were presented with another adventure. John still did not understand why Sherlock had reacted so violently at the crime scene, but he did not dare ask. Sherlock would tell him in his own time. Or he wouldn't. One could never be sure with Sherlock.

They had been summoned by a German tourist who claimed to have seen a headless ghost in Hyde Park.

"Drugs? Alcohol? PMS?" Sherlock had inquired but the woman had denied any of those.

"Look, I know what you're thinking. I'm not mad, which is what all the mad people claim. I don't take drugs, but you'd guessed as much, hadn't you? Takes one to know one, they say. And I'm not menstruating," she had replied which had shut the detective up. John was not sure if it was the hint at Sherlock's past or the woman's bluntness that changed his colleague's mind. But in any case, they found themselves in the middle of the night at the Serpentine, watching out for the Ghost Horse.

John's blog would later read this:

* * *

**THE HEADLESS HORSE**

**29th OCTOBER**

Spent the night waiting for the headless ghost horse. Christina Borchert had shown us where she claimed to have seen it, so there we were: Sherlock, myself, and the tourist. It was freezing and Sherlock insisted that there was an east wind blowing, but I don't think so. Anyway, it was just gone midnight when we heard something. It was a woman crying alright. I wanted to go looking for her, but Sherlock wanted us to stay together. The crying grew louder, and Christina grabbed my arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. As always he was the only one totally unaffected by the chill and the sounds. And then we saw it. A headless horse at the Serpentine! It looked as if it was staring into the fountain. "It can't be. It's got no head," Sherlock lectured. Well, thank you, Mister Super-Detective. Maybe it was looking for it. We were just about to close in on it when Sherlock's mobile gave a piercing beep. Of course, he had to check the text only to delete it, by which time the horse was gone.

* * *

**3 comments**

Really, John. As if it was my fault the horse vanished.

**Sherlock** **Holmes** 29 October 22:31

It was.

**Christina B.** 30 October 9:12

Shut up!

**Sherlock Holmes** 30 October 9:15


	4. The Headless Horse - Part II

**THE HEADLESS HORSE - PART II**

**30th OCTOBER**

Gave it another try. Christina is going home tomorrow, so this was really the last chance to solve the case with her. Not that Sherlock was particularly happy to have her around (sorry, Christina, if you're reading this). We went to Hyde Park again to wait for the horse, and while we were waiting, Sherlock and Christina started this massive row about drugs and addiction, and Sherlock got really worked up when Christina said that addiction was only a matter of discipline. Or the lack of it. And Sherlock said that you can't shake an addiction, even though the habit may be sleeping for a while. You just have to learn to live with it. They were still arguing when the horse reappeared. In fact I had to point this out to them. Only neither took notice. Christina then said something in German and Sherlock lost it. He would have strangled her, I'm sure. So I got between them and sent him on his way. He must have lost his mobile in the commotion, so I took it. The horse had come and gone.

I walked Christina home, and then Sherlock had a text. I thought it was one of Sherlock's crazy ways of communicating with me, so I opened it, but it only read, "Remember?" Remember what?

* * *

**6 comments**

It was my text, John. You shouldn't have opened it.

**Sherlock** **Holmes** 30 October 20:11

I could hardly have known.

**John Watson** 30 October 20:14

I wouldn't contact you on my mobile.

**Sherlock Holmes** 30 October 20:16

Yeah, you'd never. Remember what by the way?

**John Watson** 30 October 20:18

Hum?

**John Watson** 30 October 20:22

None of your business.

**Sherlock Holmes** 30 October 20:30


	5. Remember?

Sherlock was lying on his bed, staring into the dark, ignoring the text alerts. He wished he could will the thing to stop. Or the sender. He wanted no more of those texts. Which was why he had left the mobile in his coat. And the coat in the far corner of his room.

He had closed the blinds and locked the door. He wanted to be alone. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. But he couldn't. Not with those texts that kept coming.

The detective heaved a sigh and pushed himself up and off the bed. He gulped and crossed the room. It was easy to find the phone. 6 messages. He frowned and opened the first.

"Remember?" it read. Sherlock deleted it and opened the others.

"Remember?"

"Remember?"

"Remember?"

"Remember?"

"_Remember_," Sherlock whispered. They all said the same. He pressed delete and opened the last text: "Remember?" it said, with a winking smiley face and an attachment. Stiffening all over, Sherlock opened the attachment and groaned.

It was a photograph of his childhood home.


	6. A Diary Entry of Some John H Watson

I'll probably never post this anyway, but I feel I have to put these things on paper. Or type them anyway. Anyway.

We came home. Which was nice. We'd had a bit of a run, the adrenaline wearing off slowly, and I went into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock, still giggling like mad, and really making me laugh so hard, said he needed a quick shower and disappeared into his room. I made tea and did a bit of straightening, too, only that there's no big use in that, because Sherlock will re-clutter the place in no time anyway. So I put some plates away when I noticed that there was no shower running. In fact, there was **no sound** from Sherlock's room. Funny, that, I thought and took the tea through to the living-room. I called Sherlock and told him the tea was growing cold, but naturally he did not reply. He just doesn't. It's a bit of a rude habit of his, but I know he doesn't mean it. It's not that he doesn't care. It's just that he gets caught up in his thoughts, I think. Or maybe he doesn't care. Anyway, I'm used to him not saying, "Thank you, John" or "Coming" (in fact, I'm quite **glad** he's not shouting, "I'm coming, John" through the door that is). So I just sat there, and nothing happened.

And then I got up. I don't know why. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the shower or the not-shower. I knocked, of course, I knocked. But I got no answer. Which might mean that Sherlock was staring out of the window, deducing the passers-by. Or that he had done something utterly, infuriatingly stupid. Like shot up. Or cut himself. I wouldn't have been surprised.

Well, I was wrong. The room was a mess. It was obvious that somebody had wreaked havoc while we were out. Sherlock's bed looked as if it had staged an orgy of the more violent kind. The sheets had been torn and stained with a brownish liquid and a sticky clear mass. It was grotesque and disgusting and it looked like, well, blood and cum. I scanned the bare room. Books had been scattered, items of clothing cut up, and across the wall, over the headboard, someone had smeared the letters "WHORELOCK". That doesn't make sense. Sherlock doesn't do sex, I'm sure. He hates it. Or, well, at least he's not interested. He's never brought anyone round. And he's never told me there was someone. And I just can't imagine him like that. I mean, of course, I'm not imagining him like that! But even if I tried, I'd fail because he's so _**Sherlock**_. And didn't Mycroft tease him about being a virgin? At 36 that's quite an achievement. So, no, I don't think he's interested.

I can't think who'd do a think like this to him. It's so nasty and mean.

Sherlock was sitting next to the door. It seemed he hadn't moved much since he'd entered the room. He'd just sunk to the floor and pulled his legs to his chest, staring.

I said his name, but he kept staring, so I asked if he was alright. And he said, of course he was. But he said it so quietly that he might as well have admitted that he wasn't.

Did he have any idea who did this? He solemnly shook his head.

"What a sick joke!" I offered, but he shot me a sad smile and said, "No, not at all."

Whatever that means. If it's not a joke, it must be a threat, right? Some sort of a warning.

"It's a reminder, John," he explained but left it at that.

He did not want to tell the Yard, said he had to handle this alone. Whatever _this_ is.

I wanted to hug him. He looked so lost and so out of his depth, but I wasn't sure if he'd take it the right way. So I just pushed the door to and sat down next to him. And we stared together.

Very strange.

What could a scene like this be a reminder of? Is there a connection with that text that said, "remember"? I was thinking the scene looked a bit like the little boy's bedroom. So maybe this was a reminder to take the case after all. But who would go to such lengths to catch Sherlock's attention? It just doesn't make sense.


	7. Treasure Island

On the third of November, a photograph arrived in Baker Street.

John and Sherlock were having breakfast (or rather, John was, while the detective was reading the paper) when Mrs. Hudson handed them an envelope somebody had left outside the front door. It was a regular envelope addressed to Sherlock in a childlike scrawl at which Sherlock frowned and bit his lip, and John watched his friend curiously as he carefully felt and sniffed at the envelope before opening it with his breakfast knife. It held no letter, no note, just one Polaroid photograph. Sherlock picked it up and studied it in a strained concentration. His lip was bleeding again, John realized and wondered when that had become a habit. But Sherlock merely licked at the broken flesh and kept looking.

"May I see?" John inquired, which made Sherlock jump. He stared at John with an unreadable expression on his face, and the doctor was about to add that it was alright if Sherlock did not care to share. Then he turned the photograph around for John to see.

Except that there was nothing much to see.

It was a picture of a darkened room. A bedroom. _Again_, John thought, and then he realized that it was the boy's bedroom. Yes, it definitely was. He could make out the chemistry set and the butterflies. However, there was no sign of the victim, unless-

John held the photo closer to his eyes and squinted. There were restraints hanging from the headrest. And the covers were dirty and rolled into a ball, though he could not be sure. It might as well be the boy, curled up in the filth and his own blood. Sherlock smirked at John's expression of disgust. The doctor turned the photo over and his frown deepened. The same childlike scribble they'd found on the envelope now said, "26-10-1985. Remember now?"

"I don't understand," John said and looked into Sherlock's smug face, "do you?"

The detective shrugged and nodded half-heartedly.

"This is to do with the boy, isn't it?" John insisted.

"Sort of," Sherlock replied cryptically.

"So somebody is trying to get your attention!" Sherlock nodded.

"Why would they send you a photo?"

Sherlock smiled and leaned back, "It's not the first actually. They sent another one to my phone."

"Recognize the number?"

"Didn't want to be traced."

"What was in it?"

"Something similar," Sherlock lied and pouted. _This would have been his chance to tell John_. But he found he couldn't.

"Why?"

"To torment me," Sherlock blurted out and John made a doubtful face, "by reminding me!"

"_**Of what**_?!" John almost shouted, and Sherlock knew it was over. _He had to tell John_.

"Just _look_," he said quietly and suddenly felt tired.

"_**I have**_. Looked," John was getting annoyed, "what is it you want me to see? _Oh_!"

_Ah_, Sherlock thought and looked up to find John staring at the photograph, then at Sherlock.

"It's _you_, isn't it?" John stated flatly, and Sherlock gave him a sad look before he nodded ever so weakly.

"That's why you never bring home women. Or men," John's voice had dropped to a whisper, and Sherlock just kept nodding. _That had not been that difficult after all_, he found.

"God, this is," John sighed, "sick."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"They're _children_, Sherlock. _Little boys_," John shook his head and got up, "That's _disgusting_!"

Sherlock stared at his friend in shock and dreaded the answer to his next question, "Is _that_ what you think?" John kept shaking his head and shot him a look full of contempt that made the tall man wince. He realized that he could not have felt more broken if John had actually hit him. The doctor's words hurt and Sherlock felt tears welling up behind his eyes. _Strange_, he thought. He had not cried since … _then_.

He could have enlightened John, but saw no point. _This was it_. The other had won. So he stood up, too, and walked away from the table.

"It's wrong to theorize without holding all the facts," he managed but gulped.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock picked up his plate and mug and took them into the kitchen. His hands were shaking, and John was watching him even closer now that he was moving. He bit his lip and took a deep breath before he told John that, with a vivid imagination like his, he should try reading _Treasure Island_, "Might actually be a revelation." With that he locked himself in his room, and John was left with the uneasy feeling that something had just gone terribly wrong.

It took John a moment to find _Treasure Island_ among the other couple of a hundred books in the room, but he soon realized how wrong he had been about Sherlock.

Inside the book, there was a photo of the detective as a kid. _Unmistakably_, John thought, taking in the unruly curls of the boy in the pirate's costume. His smile (ever so natural due to the space between his front teeth) was endearing. _Funny that his cold flat share should have been such a cute kid._ John shook his head. _Maybe it was just that all kids were cute_.

One line of the introductory poem had been circled and John smiled at the words, "storm and adventure" – _oh, yes_. He was about to start reading when a set of Polaroids slid from the back of the book. They were similar to the one that had been in the post. Dark shots of a bedroom. _Sherlock's bedroom_, a voice inside his head hissed, _but that was not necessarily the case_, he told himself. Two pictures were close-ups of the scene. One showed an exhausted child of eight or nine, the pain of the abuse he had endured written all over the tear-stained face. John shuddered as he compared the face of the victim boy to the happy pirate. The last photo showed the actual extent of it, including the abuser, and John put it down and covered his mouth. He did not dare imagine the horrors his friend had been put through, but the clammy face contorted into a desperate cry would be haunting his dreams forever. _How must Sherlock have felt when he had accused him of being a paedophile_? John buried his head in his hands and groaned. _What a mess_. He stared at the book and the pictures of this so very young Sherlock Holmes. _How could he have been so wrong_?

Cursing himself, John went to Sherlock's room and knocked. There was no answer, but then he had not expected one. He sighed and took his mobile from his pocket to text a simple I'm sorry. –John before he spoke: "_Sherlock_? I know you can hear me. I mean it, I am – so very, very sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. If I had – had the _slightest_ idea of – _this_ – I wouldn't have said any of what I said. I just – want you to know – _it_ – doesn't change my – erm – feelings – for you. And when you're going after the bastard who did this, I'll go with you. _There_. I'll be upstairs," he sighed and added, "I'll put the book back."


	8. Texts Among Friends

Thank you. –SH Received 11:17 11-03-12

You're welcome. –JW Received 11:21 11-03-12

Please don't pass this on. –SH Received 11:23 11-03-12

Of course not! Does Mycroft know? –JW Received 11:25 11-03-12

Yes. Received 11:26 11-03-12

It's a family secret. –SH Received 11:26 11-03-12

Which makes me family, too? –JW Received 11:28 11-03-12

Not quite. Received 11:30 11-03-12

You're far too nice. –SH Received 11:30 11-03-12

Thank you? Received 11:35 11-03-12

It's a fact. You are a good person. Received 11:36 11-03-12

What happened to the abuser? Received 11:40 11-03-12

He disappeared. Received 11:46 11-03-12

You think it's him then? He's back? Received 11:48 11-03-12

I'm not entirely sure. Received 11:51 11-03-12

Who is he? Received 11:53 11-03-12


	9. Text Sent By Sherlock 03-11-12 01:02

My father. Received 01:02 11-03-12


	10. Worthless

When Sherlock regained consciousness, his head was spinning. He remembered dinner with John. _A lovely roast by the courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. Lots of red wine_. The friends had enjoyed their meal, had shared more than one laugh, and had forgotten the time. To Sherlock it seemed as if they had been sitting together for hours. Sighing contently, he opened his eyes and blinked into the darkened room. _His room_. _But why_-

He realized that his wrists were on either side tied to the legs of his bed, the strain rendering his shoulder blades and neck numb. He groaned inwardly. _The wine_! Somebody must have drugged the wine. _Obviously_. And that someone was now sitting on his bed. The detective shivered. The room was cold, and he was naked. _Leaving no doubt about the intruder's_ _intentions_. He sneered and raised his head.

"Hello, Sherlock," his father smiled and stretched out one hand. The young man flinched and growled, "Go away!"

"Now, that's not a way to treat your father, Sherlock. After so many years, too. But then social niceties have never been much of your area, I guess," the older man caressed Sherlock's left nipple before stroking down and across the flat stomach.

"You've grown," he said.

"Piss off!" Sherlock spat and tried to kick at the man. Fruitlessly, as he was sat between Sherlock's legs. The man laughed and caught Sherlock's manhood in a swift movement. The young man gasped and briefly shut his eyes. _Think of John. Think of John_, he told himself.

"You _like_ that," his father stated and Sherlock could hear him grin into the words. He knew he was having an erection against his will and he hated his body for it.

"Get _OFF_," he hissed and struggled against the restraints.

The other man laughed, "Oh, I _will_. In fact, I'm planning to cum _all over you_," Sherlock felt his breath against his chest, "_inside_ you," then against his neck, "inside _each_ and _every_ _single_ hole of yours," the strange hand was roughly kneading his testicles.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and forced himself to breathe evenly. To not let the other man see his fear. _Where was John_?_ Would he get him out of this_?_ Or would_-

"Do you have a boyfriend?" his father continued, watching the detective frown and stiffen, "_No_? I'm not surprised. Though some people seem to think that you're having it off with that little doctor friend of yours," Sherlock winced, "_Ah_, _that's it_? You'd love to, wouldn't you? But _he_ won't have you! Well, neither would _I_ if I were him," he sighed and stroked along Sherlock's inner thighs, "It's because you're _scum_. You're too _white_. Too _thin_. Even down here," he snapped one finger against Sherlock's member, "You're _ugly_. Look at those _scars_," one finger traced the fine white lines and dots that marked Sherlock's arms and groin, "Did _you_ do that to yourself? _God, you're pathetic_. _Worthless_," each word cut deeper into Sherlock's soul and he forced himself not to cry, "_You're stupid_. Drinking that wine with no second thoughts, I mean. _Consulting Detective_, I would have expected a bit more caution. How do you do it anyway? You've always lacked ambition. Too lazy for school. Too lazy to leave university with at least some sort of degree. Too lazy to fight _now_. You did _then_, remember? I think I might have broken your arm then. Anyway, you're a _slut_. Spreading your legs like an old _whore_. This isn't going to be boring, son. _I'm_ not going to be boring. I do wish you'd be more of a challenge. It will hurt _more_, of course, when you struggle. But it won't hurt less if you don't. Think of it."

And Sherlock thought of it. He remembered.


	11. John Hears Voices

John came to and rubbed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep over dinner. _How strange_. He looked around and found Sherlock gone. _Certainly. He wouldn't want to sit with a sleeping man._ The doctor yawned and stretched his arms. Dinner had been nice. _Mrs. Hudson really was a sweetheart._ She just always knew how to humour the boys. Especially on a day like this. Damp and cloudy. And as if that wasn't enough, Sherlock had been dragging him through the sewers in search of a hot scent. He'd felt more like hot chocolate, and when they finally turned in, dinner was waiting for them. So they had eaten. _Yes, Sherlock had eaten_! And they'd had lots of wine. And they'd talked. About anything and everything.

John smiled to himself. Actually, it had been a bit like a date. Except that it had been him and Sherlock. So it had not been a date. _Obviously_.

The flat was quiet, and just when John was about to push back his chair, he heard voices.


	12. John Listens

"Tonight, I'll be filling you. That's a tight little hole you've got there. Looks like they did a good job. How many stitches did you say? It's almost a pity they'll have to redo them. You really should have stayed in training. But then this will be much more fun, won't it? I'll just breach you again."

Sherlock gasped.

"That's right. And I'll be stretching you _to the limit_. Do you think your friend would lend a hand?"

"_Shut UP_! _Leave John out of this_!" Sherlock's voice was angry, but not scared.

"Oh, touchy. Reasonable though_. I_ wouldn't want _my_ flat share to see me all torn and bloody. And leaking. It will be welling out of here, you know," John heard Sherlock moan ever so softly, "trail down your legs, mixed with your blood, of course. Do you think he can fix that?"

A grunt from Sherlock, then it was the other man again.

John rose silently and went to the kitchen to retrieve his gun from the cookie box.

"-on your face. You know, you've really got the looks for this. A cute little battlefield. Does he love the war? Is he the caring type? Because he'll have to wait on you as you won't be able to walk or even stand for a while. Maybe he'll enjoy that. Maybe he'll fuck you as well while you're lying there. So at least there's some reward in it for him."

John felt the heat rush to his cheeks. _How dare the man say things like these_? He moved towards Sherlock's room.


	13. Threats

"We might take turns, you know?" the man continued, running his index finger over Sherlock's tip and eliciting a strangled moan, "John and I. Plough you all _week_. Just ramming in till you're sore and broken. And then we'll be fucking your mouth. Till your throat's all raw. Or we'll just pound into you both ends."

"_Argh_," Sherlock moaned when a thin finger pressed against his urethra, stretched the swollen and sensitive skin and finally pushed in, stimulating him before ungently leaving his body again.

"Look what I've brought you," the older man held out a narrow metal bar and Sherlock opened his eyes to study the vibrator, his pelvis jerking into another caress, and he started shivering. _This was mad. It was sick. And he was getting cold. Where was John_?

"Maybe I should bring him in here," the man smiled, holding the cold metal against Sherlock's skin, "He's lying next door. But you might want to look at him when I'm playing with you. He won't be much of an audience, but-"

"What did you do to him?" Sherlock suddenly felt sick. His father smiled at him.

"_What did you do_?" the young man panicked, "_TELL ME_!"

The vibrator made its way into Sherlock's body but he hardly noticed, "What. Did. You. Do? – _Urgh_," as it was violently jerked out again.

"Use your imagination," the man said and watched Sherlock who was shaking and who could not hold back the tears any longer, "Is that water on your face, Sherlock? You're getting soft. Is that because you remember now? Remember what I did to you? I was wondering if you'd keep it up. Get yourself shagged and beaten. And if you'd think of me every time there was somebody inside you."

"Leave me alone," Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. _Don't think of John. Don't think of what he might have done to him._

"I'm afraid I won't," the man reached behind himself and picked up some bizarrely-shaped sex toys. Handling them with care, he shook his head.

"You repel me," Sherlock whispered, while tears were rolling down the side of his face.

"What was that?"

"_You. Repel. Me_!"

The fist connected with the detective's upper lip, drawing blood.

"I'm your SON!" The next blow caught his nose.

"My son is DEAD!"

_Oh God_, Sherlock thought, _he had totally lost it._

"Go on, scream! No one will hear. You can scream your head off," he grinned maliciously and waved a catheter and some cables in front of Sherlock's face.

"You wouldn't-" _He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. He needed to think_, Sherlock realized. _This couldn't be happening again_!

"You know I will."_ He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. _

"P-please don't."

The man laughed.

"Let me go. _Please_."

_That was it_, John thought, Sherlock was crying, begging for his life. He had entered the room, and in a quick movement, the ex-soldier had targeted the intruder and fired.

Sherlock had closed his eyes remembering the pain the gadgets, toys, and tools had caused all those years ago. And then there was a shot and he felt warm and wet, and he realized it must be blood. And he knew it was his father's, but he didn't care. John was there to cut the ropes, and he scrambled off the bed and into a corner. And then he screamed.


	14. Coming Undone

John cast a cursory glance over the body that had tumbled to the ground on the other side of the bed, then he hurried over to where Sherlock was crouching. He knelt down before him trying to calm his friend. _What a mess. I just shot his father_! Sherlock was staring at him in panic, hyperventilating.

"Sherlock, _please_. I'm sorry. It's all. Right. He won't do anything. He can't do anything now," he explained, but Sherlock kept shaking and rocking his body in his own attempt at coping with the situation.

"He _can_, John," he whispered, "You have no idea what he can do." His voice was low but shrill, and John shuddered to imagine. He had seen the sex toys and other objects. In the boy's room, but also in the photographs. He had seen them briefly in here. Still, he had to get through to his friend.

"No, he can't. He's dead, Sherlock. DEAD."

Sherlock started gasping for air and making violent choking noises. Tears were streaming down his face, and John didn't think he had ever seen him this undone.

"He won't do it again, Sherlock. Ever! He. Won't. Do. It. Again," he drew the words out, but Sherlock just kept staring at the bed, scared, frightful, and John knew what needed doing. He knew what would happen, and he dreaded it, but he knew what was necessary.


	15. Breaking down

So he decides to hug Sherlock. Dropping to his knees on either side of his friend's legs, John leans in and puts his hands against the wall on either side of Sherlock's head, cornering the detective who watches him in horror. And when John's first hand is placed on Sherlock's bare arm, he screams. John heaves a sigh and adds the other arm, eventually pulling both around the naked form. Sherlock screams on top of his lungs, and John lets him. He rocks the other one to and fro and they topple over, and John lands on top of Sherlock, never letting go. And Sherlock screams.


	16. Mycroft's Haunts

It was Mycroft Holmes who called the police. He also sent two of his own men. If anything happened to Sherlock, he would never forgive himself.

When his assistant had texted him about _strange bedroom conversations in 221B_, he had smiled to himself because, _certainly_, he had thought of Dr. Watson. He had been expecting this since the beginning; and when he had seen the two the other day, he had been sure of there being some sort of private agreement between them. _How wrong could you be_?

The governmental servant had been at a party. Thankfully, 'Anthea' wasn't one to be easily ignored. She sent other texts, specifying those _conversations_, and Mycroft understood because he had _seen_. He remembered.

Remembered the only other time information of this kind had scared the wits out of him. Twenty-six years ago, it had been his little brother on the phone. Crying, sobbing quietly, and asking for only one thing, "Help me, Mycroft. Please, come and get me," and then the phone had been snatched away from the child. He had heard his brother wail in pain and terror. He had heard the raging fury of his father. Followed by a series of dull thuds. His brother, his dear little boy, moaning and sobbing. And then the terrible noise the eloquent man lacked words to describe, but he remembered the sound of. He still heard it in his worst nightmares, and he remembered the terror he had felt when he knew.

He knew the sound of a skull cracking.


	17. To the Rescue

Outside 221B, police alarmed by Mycroft Holmes and neighbours who had heard a shot had assembled to devise a plan of action. Lestrade had shaken his head in disbelief and had suggested a quick operation, but Sally Donovan had disagreed. She was pointing out that Freak enjoyed shooting the walls. Maybe Freak was in a bad mood. _Even though_, Lestrade had argued, _they had to verify_.

"Phone him," Sally had said and crossed her arms.

And then the screaming started.


	18. Imagining Things

When Lestrade kicked open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, he expected anything but what he found. The officers plus two men in black had swarmed into the tiny room, and detecting no immanent danger, had swarmed off again, leaving Sally to tend to the dead body.

"He's dead, sir," she stated, and Sherlock snorted dryly.

The chief inspector pocketed his gun and scratched his head, taking in the blood-stained sheets and then the two men in the corner of the room. An exhausted John Watson was lying on top of a naked Sherlock Holmes, croaking unintelligible words. Lestrade made a mental note to remember the image. Then he added another one to forget it.

_Still_, he felt the need to comment, "I'd always had you two down as the more imaginative kind." At this, John looked up at the policeman, then back at Sherlock, and he grinned, while Sherlock who was slowly catching his breath, began to chuckle.

"Oh _come on_!" Lestrade added which made John giggle, and when the task force left, the two friends were laughing hysterically.

"_You_," John panted, "you know we'll never hear the end of this!"

"Doesn't help that _you're_ still lying on a very naked _me_," Sherlock replied, his voice coarse from screaming, and John moved off, extending his hand to pull the detective into a sitting position. Nodding at the younger man's crotch, the doctor pointed out, "Nothing there that I haven't got myself". Sherlock smirked and took the offered hand. He just held it for a moment and looked at his friend, _wondering if John realized how much he meant to him. Wondering if he felt his pulse quicken. If he saw his pupils dilate. Sensed his breathing come more ragged_.

"You should put some clothes on," John said, pulling Sherlock off the ground. He wasn't sure about what had just happened. Of course, as a doctor, he had noticed the symptoms. He had noticed Sherlock's heart rate go up. Had seen his eyes go all dark. Had also noticed his needy rasps. And lying on top of him, he had not failed to notice the other man's arousal grow against him. _But what did it mean_? _Was Sherlock attracted to him_? _Or was this just the shock wearing off_?

The detective had taken a clean t-shirt, striped pyjama bottoms, and a silken gown from a drawer and turned his head to John who nodded and faced away while the other man put his clothes on. He still watched the young man's reflection in the window, and eventually, the reflection looked up and smiled at him.

"Let's go face the dogs, shall we?" Sherlock's voice was raw but determined, and John smiled at him, following through to the kitchen and almost bumping into Sherlock who had stopped on the threshold to whisper back at him, "Thank you, John."


	19. Room Enough for Two

The police have gone. John is sitting down heavily on the couch. Sherlock is pacing the sitting-room. His gown is flaring around his legs while the right shoulder has dislodged and fallen half-way down his arm.

John Do you want to talk about it?

Sherlock (snaps from his reverie) What? Oh. _No_. Erm. I'm. Fine.

John Sherlock!

Sherlock _What_?

John You should sleep.

Sherlock I _can't_. (gestures at his bedroom door which is sealed off as a crime scene)

John You can sleep in _my_ bed. (Sherlock stops and stares) Not … _with me_. I can. Kip down here.

Sherlock (nods) John – you really don't need to-

John (hastily) It's alright. After all, it was you who … had … who were …

Sherlock (cynically) Stripped? Intimidated? Assaulted?

John Something among those lines.

Sherlock You killed a man.

John (bites his lip) I've done it before.

Sherlock This was different though.

John I know.

Sherlock I wasn't scared of you, you know. When you. Shot him. And cut me free. I. Knew you wouldn't. _Take advantage_.

John (nods, sighs) Go and rest. I only changed the sheets this morning.

Sherlock turns to leave but hesitates at the door. He does not turn around when he speaks.

Sherlock _John_?

John Hm?

Sherlock There's room enough for two.

John (nervously) Yeah, but that's a bad idea, isn't it?

Sherlock Is it? (quietly) We've shared beds before.

John Not after … something like tonight, we haven't.

Sherlock (gulps) _What if_ … I'm scared. I'd prefer not to be alone.

John (frowns, hesitates) Really? (Sherlock nods) Hm.


	20. Sherlock Listens

"_John_?" Sherlock's voice was small and uncertain, and John told himself not to wince. Instead he huffed a monosyllabic reply.

"You never told me about the war," the detective stated.

They were lying back to back.

"What do you want to know?" the doctor asked after a beat.

"How did it happen?" John dreaded the question. He knew Sherlock was not referring to the war itself, but to his being shot. _Not many people actually found the courage to ask that question_. But those who did usually pissed him off. _Not Sherlock though. Funny, that_.

And so John stared into the dark, feeling Sherlock's radiating warmth, listening to his steady breathing, and began to tell his story.


	21. John Sees

And John talked while Sherlock listened. He did not interrupt or groan in exasperation when the doctor struggled for words or repeated himself. He did not offer snarky comments. He only asked one or two questions. To understand.

Like, "Were you afraid of dying?"

And John answered and he found it felt good to talk. So he told Sherlock all the things he had never been able to tell, his fears, his anger, his despair. And Sherlock listened.

They had fallen silent, when Sherlock said, "I was," and John had to shake himself awake, "Afraid of dying. _It hurt_," Sherlock said, and John blinked. He knew, it was his turn to listen.

"Back then. _I. _The things he did to me_._ Went on for hours. You saw the pictures, but you can't imagine- ... I was _nine_, John. I was _hurt_ and _bleeding_, and he _left me_. I couldn't walk, so I crawled to the phone to get help, but he came after me and- ... And I ended up with my head smashed in," he spoke in a calm voice, hiding his feelings behind facts, "_CCI. PVS_. They. Weren't sure about the damage. I. _Heard them_. But I couldn't speak. And then they gave up, John. _They gave me up_! And all I could do was _lie there and listen_." _Just like that day_, Sherlock thought and remembered John breaking down. He remembered the panic in his friend's voice, remembered the pain in his eyes, remembered him crying. And he couldn't stop them. Couldn't take away the fear and pain, couldn't dry his tears and shrug things off as a joke. Because they would have killed him. His John. So all he could do was lie there and listen and feel guilty.

John nodded. He suddenly realized that it was not only the abuse that Sherlock had suffered that haunted him, but the fact that his own family had abandoned him.

"Mycroft was the only one who would have none of that. I think it was because he felt responsible. For being late."

"So Mycroft knows."

"_Of course he knows_," John was surprised at the fervour of the venomous answer.

"Sorry," came the addendum, "Yes, he knows. And he understands. Because he'd been through it, too, _before me_."

"_Ah_," was all that John could manage.

Sherlock sighed and continued, "You were right. This is why I don't do … _sex_. Not anymore at least. I can't-"

Sherlock gulped and hesitated before he explained that he wasn't able to forget what had been done to him, "I know it's stupid. But this … _experience_ … is my only reference point in that area, and it just forces its way back into my head every time I-"

"You _tried_," John's voice carried surprise.

"Course I tried," Sherlock said, "Does that surprise you? You know I'm curious, John. I want to _know_! Sex doesn't alarm me. In fact I'd like to-" he sighed, "I wish I could-"

"You want to know what it _should_ feel like. _Making love_," John finished and felt Sherlock's shoulders stiffen.

"There _are_ therapies," John said but Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Maybe you haven't found the right," John bit his lip. _Woman_? _Man_? _Oh, sod it_, he thought, "_person_ yet."

Sherlock chuckled at the hesitation, "Man is fine. I. Despite … _or because_ … I'm not sure … I still prefer men."

"That's alright," John said and turned to face Sherlock who had rolled onto his back, staring holes into the ceiling, "With your looks – you could have about everyone."

_What if I didn't want Everyone_? Sherlock thought, but chose to say, "Not everyone."

"So there _is_ someone?" John could not believe it.

Sherlock smirked sadly, "Yes."

"Does he know?"

Sherlock laughed and tried to find John's eyes in the near-dark, "He doesn't get it."

"So you've – _what_? – dropped hints?" Sherlock could hear John's smile in his questions, "You've flirted!?"

"Yes," the young man's voice took on some pride, "And I've taken him out. Quite a lot of times."

"And?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Nothing."

"Have you held hands?"

"Twice," Sherlock blushed and was glad that John could not see.

"Have you kissed?"

"No," he admitted.

"Well, maybe you should," John declared, and Sherlock agreed.

They said nothing for a while. And then it was John who spoke first, "Are you waiting for a _formal_ invitation?"

"W-_what_?" Sherlock gaped and was once again glad that John couldn't see.

"I won't run," John knew it was a stab in the dark, but he was quite sure that this was what Sherlock wanted.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I _saw_," John quoted his friend.


End file.
